


My Heart His Hands

by Fulgurian



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 90 percent sad 10 percent jerking it, Canonical Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 18:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulgurian/pseuds/Fulgurian
Summary: "It was here, back at the monastery, staying in a room that reminded him so much of the one he spent his young nights in, that the memories overtook him and led him to the bottom of a bottle. In the last drops he found little solace, only more guilt and those happy memories mixing for an overwhelming concoction. Anger, regret… longing, all mixing for a dangerous cocktail, one that caused heat to pool much lower then he would want."Rodrigue finds himself overcome with the memories of a love he never had, but one he so deeply longed for.
Relationships: Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	My Heart His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feelings about Rodrigue and adore the idea of a one-sided pining Rodrigue with accidental asshole straight man Lambert. I subscribe to any form of Rodrigue/Lambert..
> 
> If you love rare/uncommon pairs and want to be enabled, consider joining the fe3h rarepair discord! They motivated me to write fic for the first time in like 7 years haha. https://discord.gg/SPeGQcm

Garreg Mach is a beautiful sight to behold, religion factoring into your appreciation for it or not; the tall stained glass windows paint the hallways a beautiful array of colors which only add to the nostalgia going through his mind. These were the halls that he would sneak down with Lambert when they were young and foolish, blissfully unaware of the unfortunate futures that would fall upon them. Rodrigue was so carefree then; he thought on these memories fondly, but it also caused sorrow to make its home in his chest the entire time he was here. 

There were always rumors about the extent of their sneaking. Lambert had always been the more rebellious of the two, and he was the first to make his feelings known as well. The future king’s boldness complimented his own more mutable confidence, so when he was pulled into Lambert’s arms for a kiss when they were nothing but foolish kids-- kids who didn’t understand the emotional repercussions of their actions-- he was overjoyed at the time.

At least… in those fabricated memories that manifested from his longing, his desires… after all these years it’s hard to tell what really happened and what didn’t.

Rodrigue was so very in love. Most feelings fade with time, and Goddess, he wished he could pray away that love. He tried so many times to make the aching in his chest go away, yet no reprieve ever came for him. 

If the Goddess is real, she is certainly cruel to him indeed. 

His heart remembered these moments with such fondness, and yet it filled him with so much guilt associated with his happiness that it was impossible to truly be happy about it. 

Were he wiser in his youth, he would have pushed himself away from Lambert rather then indulge himself in a fantasy where their love could have transcended obligation of their stations. He had to grow up. They both took wives, had children…. and yet he still dreamed of those times when he had everything to look forward to. 

It wasn’t true, it was never true. The idea of being with him was nothing more than an illusion; a hallucination that haunts him every time that silence and loneliness creeps beneath his covers. 

His memory of Lambert is tainted, stained with red and an ugly blackness from the sorrow that surrounds him. It all started with his death... mistake after mistake that led him to his miserable existence. Laying in his bed alone, his own son avoiding him even when he hasn’t seen him in months. Months that feel like years considering their estrangement due to words he can never possibly hope to take back. His efforts to recover their mutilated relationship are fruitless, and that’s something he has to live with. 

Lambert being dead, being the catalyst of his suffering, is another thing he has to live with. 

It was here, back at the monastery, staying in a room that reminded him so much of the one he spent his young nights in, that the memories overtook him and led him to the bottom of a bottle. In the last drops he found little solace, only more guilt and those happy memories mixing for an overwhelming concoction. Anger, regret… longing, all mixing for a dangerous cocktail, one that caused heat to pool much lower then he would want. More guilt.

He laughed a hollow laugh, recognizing that he must be some sort of masochist to still be able to feel turned on from his false memories despite the self disgust bubbling in his chest. Everything just felt so familiar, closing his eyes with a sigh when he can practically hear Lambert’s voice… feel his presence in the air that they used to share together. 

The smell though, the scent of flowers in his room, was just like the ones he would place at his dear friends grave religiously. 

Were he a wiser man, one with more self respect, he wouldn’t be letting his hand trail down his body, cussing at himself because he wished his hands were bigger, rougher… more like his king’s. 

Is this what I’ve come to? He thinks to himself, as if it’s his first time touching himself to fantasies of Lambert, disrespecting the dead with his lustful thoughts. Not having the patience to be slow with himself, he lifts his hips, giving away just enough to free himself of his confines with a shudder, air cold against him. At this point in his life, why go slow and savor it when the guilt of it eats him alive, necessity and frustration outweighing self loathing only slightly. 

His own touch makes him shudder, gasping as he rolls his thumb to tease himself. It was wrong, all of it was so wrong. How foolish he was to love someone he could never have, how even more idiotic he is for never finding it in himself to move on. Cruel, he must be so cruel to have imagined Lambert all these years, even with his late wife; if he let himself feel too much pleasure he would want to say Lambert’s name, beg for him, plead for him to ever see him in the same way. But that wasn’t the case.

“Lambert…” moaning his name, he pumps himself in full, hips stuttering in their desperation for touch. Desperate for the touch of a ghost, his own grip and slow motions too rough and needing. 

In the morning, he’ll lie to himself. He’ll tell himself that his tears were from pleasure, being frustrated for far too long and the memories the monastery brought him. If he admits to himself that the wetness on his cheeks were still, after all these years, still for the mourning of Lambert, his desires for his love.. the shame he’d feel. 

Once more, the guilt.

Choking, his moans came out in sobbing gasps, eager for release in hopes that it will make it all be over, hoping that it’ll ease his body enough to sleep when his mind won’t let him without it. In a drunken haze, if he thinks hard enough, lets go enough, he can practically feel his king;s lips on his neck, his hand around him. Lambert’s voice reminding him of their youthful promises and, in his wildest fantasies…. that he loves him in return. 

Those words, a simple three words, that he’s heard the late king say many times… just never to him. But he can hear it now, and that's all he needs, thrusting into his own hand and covering his mouth to stifle the way he moans out for him. It was unceremonious, hand sticky as he lay spent, debating if getting up to clean up is really worth it when he feels so emotionally drained.

(Though emotionally drained is the normal, so, nothing new there.)

With the shreds of consciousness he still had, he at least grabbed a cloth and cleaned himself up enough before laying back down, clothes and all, uncaring. In all other moments of life he had to be strong, had to be the hand of the king and remain solid despite losing what feels like all he’s loved. 

Even physical reprieve couldn’t halt the tears, these empty halls haunting him. In the light of day, and even once sleep finally takes him, it’s always Lambert who haunts him the most. And it’s Lambert’s face he’s forced to see the most, seeing those same, familiar eyes staring back at him every time Dimitri looks to him for guidance.


End file.
